


Nappies

by elldotsee, Thornypeach



Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Johnlock, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluffy and sweet, M/M, Parentlock, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson in Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25292374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thornypeach/pseuds/Thornypeach
Summary: John and Sherlock adjust to life as new parents.
Relationships: John Watson and Rosie, Sherlock Holmes & Rosie, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807645
Comments: 17
Kudos: 91
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	Nappies

**Author's Note:**

> This absolutely beautiful story was written by ThornyPeach (and merely given a quickie onceover by yours truly). She's a fantastic writer who has been part of multiple fandoms throughout the years, and has also been one of my closest friends for several DECADES (eep). Originally, this entire project started as a joint one between us, and much of the brainstorming and behind-the-scenes work has still been done together while she juggles her very busy real life. The arrival of her own tiny darling in the last year has understandably put her writing on the temporary back burner, which is why I am SO EXCITED to get to share this story with all of you now! :-D 
> 
> Love ya, M! 
> 
> -ell <3

Never had Sherlock taken the time to consider what it might be like to care for an infant. It wasn’t relevant to his cases, nor had he ever predicted for a second that he would find himself responsible for the life of a tiny human. Yet, here he is, eyes locked on the alert, colorless stare of a tiny, perfect four month old baby. Well, nearly perfect. They have some work to do on her timing and sleep habits. Four o’clock in the morning is no time for a staring contest.

Sherlock watches as tiny eyebrows pull together, a microscopic crease forming between them, before her eyes widen suddenly and she lets out a wail.

“Oooooh, now,” Sherlock murmurs, afraid she will wake John. “What is it, love? What’s happened?”

He shifts her up to his shoulder and pats her back gently. His hand is larger than her entire torso and he marvels at how someone so very, very small can contain all of that glowing, vital, howling life. Sherlock shifts his hand around a bit, thumping a gentle rhythm into the space between her shoulder blades, into her low back, and over her ribs. Rosie grunts and whines; her sweet little feet kicking against Sherlock’s chest. He has read that gas bubbles can become trapped in different locations throughout the digestive tract, and that varying the movement can occasionally help. Sherlock is more than willing to give it a try if it means Rosie will finally sleep. Without warning, the baby’s warm head lifts from Sherlock’s shoulder so she can let out a belch fit for someone significantly larger and much more crass than his little Rosie. 

“Oh! Very good, darling.” Sherlock praises, rubbing her back gently. He can feel her head lower to his shoulder and the entirety of her being melting into his chest. “Ah, feeling better then,” he whispers with a grin, turning his head to press a kiss to her sweaty little head, the downy hair like silk beneath his lips.

* * *

“Oi, Rosie! Phew! Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?” John says, clearing his throat at the aura of stink surrounding his daughter. 

“It boggles the mind that someone so tiny and adorable could also create such a terrible stench,” Sherlock comments from where he sits on the sofa, seemingly absorbed in whatever is on his laptop screen. 

John chuckles, carrying Rosie under the arms, to avoid any poo-smushing. “Ah, and what would you know about it?” he asks, gently chiding. “You haven’t changed a single one.”

Sherlock looks up from his computer, insulted. “That is not true, John. I changed her nappy twice today already!”

John hasn’t stopped his trip up the stairs to Rosie’s changing table. He yells down, “Doesn’t count unless it stinks, Sherlock!”

Sherlock scowls at his laptop before slamming it shut and abandoning it on the sofa. He takes the stairs two at a time, arriving in Rosie’s room just as John is sliding a miniscule pair of stretchy pink trousers off, revealing adorably pudgy baby legs that kick vigorously at the freedom. 

“Ah, strong kicks, my love!” John says approvingly, grinning at her. 

“Here, let me,” Sherlock says, stepping up beside John and grabbing a nappy out of the basket before John can. 

John sighs as he steps back. “I was only teasing, Sherlock,” he says regretfully. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know, John, but you  _ are _ right. I don’t want to miss out on any aspect of caring for our daughter. No matter how unpleasant.”

They stare at each other for a moment, John searching Sherlock’s eyes for any signs of upset, and Sherlock searching for a sign John’s going to continue to argue the point. John nods and shrugs, allowing Sherlock to go on. 

Rosie coos. 

“Oh, hello, darling,” Sherlock says with a smile— the sort, John notices, that is reserved only for her. He smiles too, as Rosie continues the conversation, with a wide-mouthed grin.

“Aaaah!”

“Oh, I see,” Sherlock replies, nodding seriously as he releases the tabs on the nappy. She continues to babble at him and kick enthusiastically. 

“No! Wait!” Sherlock says as Rosie’s heel nearly flings open the full nappy. He attempts to grab both of her swirling legs with one of his hands, eventually capturing them both. “We don’t need any further mess,” he gently chastises before pulling the nappy back, turning his head sharply to the side, and then coughing forcefully. 

John is biting his lip hard, attempting to stifle the giggles that are gathering in his chest. 

Sherlock clears his throat once, twice, three times, and John has to turn away and clamp his hand over his own mouth. He desperately doesn’t want to damage Sherlock’s ego, but his reaction to the smell is almost more than John can tolerate.

“It’s fine, John,” Sherlock says flatly. “No need to cause a stroke attempting to contain your amusement.” 

With permission granted, John bursts out in a fit of giggles, bending at the waist and propping his arms on his thighs. He laughs until his cheeks ache and he has tears streaming down his face. After what feels like a long time, he lowers himself into the rocking chair, exhausted, an occasional  _ ‘ha!’ _ still escaping every now and again. 

“Feel better?” Sherlock asks a few moments later, holding a fresh-nappied Rosie to his chest, a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. 

“Oh! Loads,” John admits, as he rises from the chair, a grin still spread across his face. He steps in close to Sherlock, putting his arms around both him and Rosie and hugging them gently. He reaches up and kisses Sherlock right where he can see that smile hiding. “You know,” he says, dropping his voice. “It’s actually kind of sexy. You, changing a nappy.”

He drops his arms and walks toward the staircase, stopping to look back as Sherlock snorts a laugh. “Just how much sleep  _ did _ you get last night, John? You’re speaking nonsense.” He’s rolling his eyes, though he can’t seem to contain his smile.

* * *

Sherlock wakes with a start, disoriented and struggling to pry his eyelids apart. He guesses that he hasn’t been asleep long; the grogginess is like a muscle relaxer, turning his limbs into lead. He breathes deeply, attempting to piece together the fragmented thoughts and emotions that seem to swirl just past the veil of sleep he’s not yet able to shake. A piercing wail alerts his conscious mind to the reason for waking: Rosie. He rolls over and finds the other side of the bed empty and cold, the flung-back duvet a clue to John’s haste. Sherlock checks the time on the bedside table clock. 2:11. Right on schedule.

A barrage of images flashes through his mind, reminding him of the warm glow of love he feels for the tiny new human, and the desperate exhaustion she’s caused. It really is quite the experience, feeling so much frustration and affection for the same person, at the same time, when they clearly are incapable of any effective communication whatsoever. Speaking of communication, Rosie’s screams have only reached a higher pitch in the moments he's been awake. Sherlock trusts that John is doing all he can to meet Rosie’s needs; it isn’t doubt in John’s abilities as a parent that has Sherlock dragging himself out of bed. Instead, he finds himself simply unable to ignore her cry, and worried that John may be reaching a point of desperation if the crying doesn’t stop soon. 

The scene in the sitting room is the stuff of oil paintings; a lamp glowing warmly in the corner, baby paraphernalia scattered on chairs, tables, and floor, and the silhouette of the love of Sherlock’s life holding a tiny baby to his broad chest. 

“Sh, sh, sh,” John whispers while he bounces and Rosie is temporarily distracted by the movement. She is quiet for one blessed breath, then startles and continues with her exhausted little cry. Sherlock approaches them quietly, hoping not to upset the situation further. 

“Do you need a break?” Sherlock whispers in John’s ear, smoothing his hand over John’s back. 

John shrugs. “I’m okay, really,” he says. “But if you don’t mind staying for a bit, it would be nice to have some company.” 

“Of course,” Sherlock replies, leaning down to press a kiss to John’s cheek, and then to Rosie’s head, before he starts pacing around the room, looking for something that might be used to abate the sobbing. The scatter of blankets, pacifiers, rattles, and bottles leads Sherlock to believe that every single thing has been attempted and has failed. He tries to find the small wicker basket where they keep Rosie’s growing collection of things. This basket tends to migrate about the room, being shifted out of the way as John and Sherlock take turns working on their computers, soothing Rosie, and scrubbing bottles. Its current location is hidden half-behind Sherlock’s desk chair, and he sighs, bending to pick it up, making another circuit around the messy room, collecting and tossing things back in. 

“Oh!” he says aloud, drawing both John and Rosie’s attention, if only for a split second as he notices there  _ is  _ something they haven’t tried yet. “What about this?” Sherlock says, holding his violin up for John to see.

John’s smile is enough to convince Sherlock to play forever, all soft and fond. “Yes, I think that’s just the thing,” he says, taking a step closer to where Sherlock stands. 

Sherlock plucks the strings gently, holding the instrument beside his face and adjusting the pegs to find just the right note for each string. He gives John a hopeful look and lifts the violin to his shoulder. Pulling the bow across the strings, he puts a very gentle pressure on it, creating a long, soft note intended to be soothing. Both Sherlock and John exhale long breaths after the note, feeling the music settle into them. Rosie grunts and presses her forehead into John’s t-shirt. The two new fathers smile at each other indulgently before John attempts to turn her head gently to the side so she can breathe. 

Lifting the bow again, Sherlock begins to play the melody he’s been carrying around with him since the first night he laid eyes on his daughter. It is sweet and gentle, a testament to the feelings of sheer adoration he has whenever he looks upon her, even when she’s screaming her tiny lungs out. It doesn’t take long for the music to draw Rosie’s attention. At first, she’s lifting her head with a strength they hadn’t realized she possessed so that she can look toward the sound, John’s hand hovering behind her soft head for support. As the song goes on, though, Rosie settles against John, her ear pressed to his chest while her eyes blink slowly in Sherlock’s direction. John is swaying gently, very aware of how any misstep could break this spell of calm and trigger the crying again.

The music goes on, a sweet, restful melody and Sherlock can see Rosie’s breathing begin to even out, her back rising and falling against John’s palm with each breath. He can’t help but think of how rapid her breathing feels- a testament to her size; something that Sherlock finds both terrifying and precious. He simultaneously wants her to be bigger, so that he can feel more secure in her ability to take on the world, and for her to never get any bigger because she is the picture of human perfection. Little and new and soft and beautiful. John presses a kiss to Rosie’s head, her body bonelessly resting against him in a way that speaks of complete trust and total abandon. He watches her little mouth as she sleeps, the rosebud lips occasionally pouting or puckering with her dreams. 

Several minutes later, Sherlock sets the violin down, his chest aching at the sight before him. He never could have predicted that watching John care for a baby— and not just  _ any  _ baby, this is their daughter — could have such a profound effect on him. He wants to save this moment for all of eternity, and he does try, tucking the image into a special room, in the special wing of the mind palace he’s started to build for Rosie. He hopes he will never forget how very  _ much _ he feels right now.

“You must be exhausted,” he says to John, his hand resting on the small of his back again. John startles, eyes darting up to Sherlock’s in surprise. “Were you...sleeping standing up?” Sherlock asks.

John smiles. “No, I was just...distracted,” he says, his voice going soft as he brushes another kiss to Rosie’s head. Sherlock has to stop himself from wrapping them both tightly in his arms. “I hadn’t realized you’d stopped playing.” 

“Do you want to try to lay her down? Maybe get some rest?” Sherlock whispers, tilting his head toward the bassinet that they’d ended up setting up in the sitting room after they both had spent her first night in the flat constantly climbing the stairs to check on her. Baby monitors were nowhere near sufficient comfort for nervous first-time dads. 

“Not yet,” John replies, shrugging his shoulders in an ineffective attempt at gesturing to Rosie, curled up against him.

Sherlock understands. 

“Come on,” he says, waving a hand as he settles himself into his armchair, opening his arms to illustrate that there is room for John. John smiles indulgently and carefully lowers himself to Sherlock’s lap, resting his back against his right arm and his head against his shoulder. Sherlock sighs and tightens his arm around John, happy at managing to hold them both, without disturbing Rosie’s sleep. He slides his left hand up to rest over John’s where he’s holding the warm little bundle to him and John leans even closer to Sherlock, nuzzling against his neck. Sherlock can feel John’s chest rising and falling steadily against his own, and Rosie’s doing the same beneath his fingertips, and he is overcome with an overwhelming gratefulness. He is desperately thankful to have them both here with him: happy, safe, content and together. He takes a careful stock of everything he is feeling and tucks this memory carefully away beside the one he had saved only a moment ago. He might, he thinks, have to make Rosie’s wing of the mind palace much larger than he had originally planned. 

* * *

“Ugh, John! This stuff smells bloody awful! How has she been drinking this putrescence? It’s no wonder she doesn’t sleep! She’s exacting her revenge on us for our insistence that she ingest this muck several times a day!” Sherlock calls from the kitchen, where he’s supposed to be making a bottle for Rosie. She seems to agree with Sherlock’s sentiments and is screeching at the top of her lungs, directly into John’s ear.

“Could you just hurry with the bottle?!” he calls, irritation flaring as he bounces on his toes and pats Rosie’s back.

“What?” Sherlock asks, poking his head in from the kitchen. 

“Oh never mind,” he mutters, waving a hand at Sherlock, who can definitely still not hear a damn thing he’s saying over the incessant yowling.

A few moments later, Sherlock hurries into the room with a warmed bottle in hand. “Here we are, darling,” he croons, holding up the bottle where Rosie can see it over John’s shoulder. She begins to kick vigorously against his chest, a desperate, excited sound escaping her perfect little rosebud mouth. Sherlock gives them both an affectionate smile as John moves to the sofa and settles in, Rosie snuggled into the crook of his arm. Sherlock sits beside them and hands John the bottle and a burp cloth, just in case. 

“Alright my little Rosebud,” John whispers, tilting the bottle so that the end of the silicone nipple is filled with milk and not air. Rosie is rooting around, mouth opening and closing like the most precious impression of a goldfish. In her desperation to eat, the baby is sucking the milk down much too fast. She will give herself a terrible stomachache. Sherlock tenses. John sighs.

“Just tell me whatever it is I’m doing wrong, Sherlock,” he snaps, gently pulling the nipple out of Rosie’s mouth. She lets out an affronted cry.

“No. No, you’re the doctor. I’m sure you know better than I do…” Sherlock says, waving a hand through the air and letting it drop to his lap.

John drops his head against the back of the sofa and sighs again, exhaustion and irritation making it sharper than he intends. “We have been through this, Sherlock. I know how to deliver babies. I know how to hold them. I know how to treat them when they are sick. But none of that means that I know what the fuck I’m doing here.” He lifts his head and turns his tired, bloodshot eyes to Sherlock. “Besides, you clearly have  _ something _ you want to say. So please. Before she starts screeching again.”

Rosie has begun to make her desperate,  _ I cannot possibly go another moment without sustenance _ whimper.

“She needs to be sitting up more,” Sherlock says. “She drinks it too fast and gives herself terrible gas. I read about pace feeding...and I think that might help,” he finishes, almost sheepishly. John raises an eyebrow. It’s not like Sherlock to be sheepish about… well about  _ anything _ . 

“Alright.” John says, handing Sherlock the bottle so that he can gently shift Rosie into a more upright position. She’s still making that sound. It almost sounds like a giggle, except that this sound ends in eardrum-bursting decibels. “Better?” he asks, looking to Sherlock, who nods. 

“Now hold the bottle almost horizontal, that way she won’t get too much milk at once and choke.”

John does, raising eyebrows at Sherlock for approval. Rosie is happily drinking again, creating a contented little rhythm. Breathe in, swallow milk, breath out a little sigh, breathe in again. John can’t think of another sound he’s ever found so endearing. He looks up again to check with Sherlock and is met with a blinding smile. John’s heart swells. The sweetness of Rosie— of their daughter— nestled in his arms and Sherlock’s obvious adoration for her is almost more than his chest can contain. He breaths in a ragged breath as tears sting the corners of his eyes. 

“I… I didn’t know,” Sherlock whispers, his voice rough with emotion as their eyes meet. “I had no idea I wanted this. Never imagined I could have it, but my god, John…” he stops, shaking his head and swallowing hard. 

“I know,” John says, blinking rapidly as the tears threaten to escape, his hands too full of Rosie and her bottle for him to stop them. 

Sherlock turns to face John and reaches up, gently thumbing the moisture from beneath each of his eyes, smiling a sweet smile that is almost overcome by emotion. John notices how Sherlock’s eyes are also swimming with unshed tears and they have turned his irises a vibrant green.

“My god, you’re beautiful,” John breathes, examining every facet of Sherlock’s eyes, observing how the depths hint at his usual blue-gray, while the surface reflects the green. Sherlock drops his gaze, a small embarrassed smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. He looks back up and takes John’s cheek in his hand. “So are you,” he says caressing the skin with his thumb.

A quiet  _ pop _ ! attracts their attention. Rosie has made quick work of her bottle and has promptly dropped off for a nap, her little body limp and trusting in her daddy’s arms. Rosie sighs in her sleep and her fathers do too. 

Sherlock stands a moment later, takes John’s face in both of his hands, and kisses him soundly before taking the empty bottle from his hands and quietly sneaking to the kitchen to wash it.

John doesn’t think he’s ever felt so very  _ much _ before. Being with Sherlock has been like a dream come true, but having a family with him? It’s like being given the most perfect gift that you never knew you wanted. It is as if this tiny person burrowed into his chest and made his heart grow larger. He was sure he wasn’t capable of this much adoration before, but now? Now he feels as if he could positively overflow with a love that is too big for his physical form. He sniffles quietly as tears well up again. This time, he uses Rosie’s soft burp rag to dry them, and then leans over, placing a kiss to the little girl’s forehead. She wriggles a little and presses her face closer to John’s chest. 

“I love you, little Rosebud,” he tells her. 


End file.
